


Revival Tricks

by KingpinCobblepot (Theonlylucysaxon)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Broken Edward, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kingpin Oswald, M/M, Nygmobblepot, Past Child Abuse, Post Season 4 Finale, TW mental illness, Tagged for future smut, Though a happy ending is hopefully in the cards, also graphic details of some unpleasantness, but Ed has a real break down and it's def not pretty, if you want fluff this is NOT it, nothing too terrible I don't think, slowburn apparently, tw self harm, very important to me no one reads this without being warned though, very minor but still in there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-07 12:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15908310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theonlylucysaxon/pseuds/KingpinCobblepot
Summary: Basically Oswald saves Ed with Hugo Strange at the end of season four, with the full intention of seeing their old rivalry born again so he can be the one to kill him this time because how very dare Lee try to take that from Oswald. That is his right. But then Ed is broken and Oswald can't bring himself to kill him because he isn't himself and it wouldn't be worth it-- or at least that's the reason he tells himself.





	1. The Decision

“Revive him.” 

That was it. All that Oswald could really muster for the man who had been his best friend and worst enemy. His true love and his greatest weakness. That which delivered him from the ashes of his own ruin, and the thing which threw him back into desolation with little concern for what more might be needed. For what more could be had between them. Then again… Maybe Edward was always meant to be the life and death of Oswald Cobblepot’s heart. After all--- No one else had ever quite managed to break through to it. 

As a teen, Oswald had of course noticed other boys. He would be lying to say attraction or even arousal was foreign to him. He had experienced both. A handsome man in a well tailored suit… It was something a person noticed, surely. And as all teenage boys endeavor after the discoveries of the pleasures they can find alone in their beds by moonlight-- so too had the kingpin always indulged in fantasies. But that was all clinical, biological, and utterly fruitless. Having a sex drive hardly equated falling in love, and it fell very far short of him having a desire for another person. 

In fact, Oswald had convinced himself that love, romance, and even lust were beneath him on an evolutionary standard. He was above all of that animalistic rutting and overly idealistic declarations of ardor. Or so he considered consciously-- some part of him of course believed quite the opposite. That oh so well guarded, well hidden, long buried pile of self loathing… Those fragments of doubt and hate and regret that he felt for himself and his actions… Those bits of his life that accumulated like dust against a bookshelf, marring an otherwise pristine ability to justify anything and everything. Rendering himself caught between a lack of conscience and an odd sense of guilt for the fact of not being insane enough to truly NOT see all the cruelty he had done. 

But that remained buried, and for more than thirty years, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was too superior for romance. 

But then there was Edward.

And Edward changed… Well, everything. 

He had been the death of him, literally. Loving him so much it consumed everything else, left him weak and vulnerable-- a fool to be tricked and lied to and manipulated. Oswald Cobblepot, king of Gotham, mayor of the city-- outwitted because he was so concerned with the fact he LOVED Edward.

Never again. He steeled himself as he looked down at the stabbing victim, the cold lifeless body…. The empty shell that had once been everything to him. His finger trailed over the pale curvature of Ed’s neck and he swallowed back tears. He died for that woman. After everything, the idiot let himself die for her. He was the fool now. 

“Revive him. I don’t care about her.” He mumbled the words, and turned on his heel to exit the room and leave Doctor Strange and his minions to work. Oswald told himself softly that this was not out of love. Not out of affection. Not out of desire. Not out of anything even resembling fondness. No. He was saving Ed-- so he could be the one when the time came to kill him. Because the Penguin had earned that right to end the Riddler. Not Lee Thompkins. Not anyone else. Him.


	2. The Reunion

It had been successful. That was all Oswald wanted to know about the procedure. Success. Good. Edward was out there then. He was out there, being himself and when the time came then he would come and find Oswald with some plan or another. He would stage a grand heist and leave a million clues for Jim Gordon to bring him to Oswald’s doorstep with some prolific gesture just as he arrived to make it clear that this had always been about Oswald. And the officer and the kingpin would track Edward down, only to of course lose the overgrown GCPD boy scout along the way so it was the two of them. Just them. Edward would have that little pistol he loved so much, Oswald would have something more akin to an assault weapon. Their final battle would happen and Oswald will have brought him back… Just… 

Just for the sake of killing him on his terms. 

He has months to think on the notion of it, and this is how he has come to fantasize about the fantastical way he’ll end this once and for all. He’ll make sure Edward realizes once and for all which of them is truly superior, and which of them is a fool.

In fact, he has so much time considering this ending, that he never really considers another possibility. It never occurs to him that contingencies may need to be made, or that Ed will behave in any way short of his normal, compulsive, calculating self. And thus, he doesn’t know how to respond when he enters his office one evening to find Ed just… Sitting there. Staring up at him. Looking… terrified. 

But he isn’t just him, is he? 

He’s wearing an improperly buttoned white shirt that bares stains of his blood or someone else’s-- and it hangs from his lanky frame as though perhaps he has lost what weight he carried across his torso to leave him utterly devoid of more than his skeleton and skin. His pants are wrinkled, so is the shirt now that he pays attention. They were from a hamper or at the very best, removed and discarded uncaringly and put back in on in haste. His hair is a mess of shaggy curls and unintentional bangs that hang over his forehead. His eyes are bloodshot, his mouth half slack, and peeking out from beneath the crooked collar of that oh so abysmal shirt-- writing? On his neck? 

Oswald approached slowly, frowning and wondering how this fell into the elaborate trap he was certain Ed was trying to catch him in. How was this bait going to work? Was Ed suddenly going to reveal a syringe and drug him? Was he going to spring up and tackle him to the ground at knife point? Still, even in this state, he is sure Ed has some plan. He is going to attack. He has to attack. It’s who he is. It’s who the RIDDLER is…..

As he gets closer, he reaches a hand out to the man who flinches. Fear? Of him? Of this? Why? He clearly has the upper hand of having surprised Oswald? Why wait for him to approach if he wasn’t armed? What was this game? Oswald’s hand follows the unsure movements and soon it brushes against Ed’s chin to guide it up so he can inspect the writing he caught above his collar. Tugging it down, he can just make out the words. Etched into his skin, so deep he might have bled when the ink first carved into him.

_-WHO AM I?-_

Manic handwriting, as if he trembled and fought against the urge to write it. It occurs to Oswald that Ed hasn’t moved. No more than his inital flinch. No. He remains stationary. He remains… Immobile. He remains as if obeying some unspoken command. As though he has no control over his own ability anymore. His eyes look to Oswald expectantly. He’s begging him for something and for a single moment, Oswald wonders if it might be death. 

“Help.” The word is small, quiet, nearly inaudible and not very well enunciated. The movement of his mouth just a little too much for him in such a state. So instead he whimpers the word with dry lips and weak throat. A simple word, that is somehow the most sincere pleading the kingpin thinks he’s ever heard of anyone-- including people who bartered with him for their very lives. 

The thought vaguely passes through him as he moves back to collect his coat and wrap it over Ed’s shoulders, which he grips to guide him out of his office and out to the car. 

Perhaps that is exactly what Ed is truly begging for.


	3. The Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is getting longer than I intended. Probably adding slowburn to the description. Give me kudos or comments if you're reading out there and enjoying. This is my first fanfic of Nygmob and it's a little hard to tell if I'm doing it right.

The car ride is silent. 

Such a strange thing, considering even riding together in their most vehement moments of hatred, Oswald and Edward could scarcely keep a moment of quiet between them. The thought dawns on the penguin, that he could kill Ed right now. He’s clearly out of his mind and unarmed and wouldn’t even fight back if he weren’t so weakened from malnutrition… Everything he had been craving for months since the other's revival, lay at his fingertips. Stab him. Shove him out of the car and back up over him. Drive to the docks, shoot him and throw him in. It would be cathartic and satisfy that piece of vengeance that burns for getting even with Edward Nygma.

But just as it had been once before, it is clear that this isn’t Edward. This isn’t even a person really. It’s just that same shell he had last seen when finding Ed fresh from his little escapade with the doctor. How strange to think he could simultaneously revive him and make him seem even less alive. 

Oswald is entirely unsure of when or how or with what provocation came his decision to just lead Ed out of the club, into his car, now headed towards his home. That one word... That pathetic single word, that echoed inside of the penguin in a way he had told himself nothing could affect him anymore. He had sealed away his heart long ago, and yet seeing Edward look so vulnerable touched him, as sickening as the notion was. He was such a clever man, proud, profound, a force of nature in his own right and a villain of monstrous proportions. Oswald had always seen that side of Ed, the capacity which he held to be so much more than the forensic scientist gone mad convict. He saw the Riddler before there was a Riddler to see. 

And he had fallen in love with that part of Ed. 

With all parts of Ed. 

NO. He draws a slow breath and turns his head to the window. This isn’t what he wants. Isn’t what he has spent so much time convincing himself of. He HATES Ed now. Hates the Riddler. Hates the man he is and the man he tries to be and the man he buries deep within him. He hates him in a way that is sincerely unique and rare because he knows him well enough to truly hate the very core and essence of Edward Nygma.

So with this in mind, it makes no real sense why he finds himself saving the person he loathes most in the world, and yet here Oswald is. Riding beside him, heading to the mansion he had claimed by default in the moments looting and havoc upon the city. Still there is ruin to be seen and most gangs lay scattered in back alleys and wait for their chance to take him down. But for now, Oswald is king again and oh it feels so very exquisite. His soft blue-green eyes flick over to the trembling mess of a silent, sloppy Edward Nygma beside him and half regret his state for the simple fact he won’t get to really appreciate the home Oswald has created here for himself. Ed always was a man of fine tastes and a wonderful sense of true luxury. A pity he wouldn’t be able to enjoy the marble floors, the columned staircases, the expensive furniture and decor. 

They arrive and Oswald looks to Ed, suddenly feeling awkward. What comes now? What even is his plan here? He can’t remember making the decision yet all at the same time, here he is making all these decisions. 

His arm reaches out and Ed flinches again with an audible gasp that startles Oswald as it breaks the well accustomed silence between them. “It’s okay. We’re here. It’s time to go inside.” He offers, sounding utterly patronizing, but he finds his patience wears thin as a caregiver. He wasn’t made for this work, especially not for a man whom he hated and who hated him. Still it bothers him that his tone was so harsh and he softens a little, looking into those lost, dark eyes he had so adored staring into at one time. 

“You need to…. To come inside with me. So I can help. Come on.” He nodded and moved to the door which was opened for him and he extended a hand to usher Ed out and along beside him.

He led him into the building and waved off security when they tried to follow him as he led Edward into the safety of a guest bedroom. There is something intimate about this sort of thing, and while he would never acknowledge it-- Oswald feels like there is an obligation on his part to keep Ed’s intimacy. He owes him nothing and yet he can’t bring himself to humiliate the great and brilliant man in his arms by allowing anyone unnecessary to see him like this. Once inside the bedroom, he guides Ed to sit down and gently holds out his hands to push the coat from his shoulders. He mostly was curious about inspecting the words on his neck, and so he proceeded to undo the buttons of Ed’s shirt. The taller man just sat, silent, eyes fixed on the floor. As if he were as lifeless as he had been on Strange’s slab that day. 

Oh but what Oswald finds. 

It could have brought a shudder to a weaker man to see the mutilation that was Eds skin. Scrawled across the whole of his torso, beginning at his neck and running the length of his arms and chest and stomach… Riddles. Riddled with riddles. The skin was raw, red and raised in most places. Dried blood flaked off of certain spots as Oswald gently traced his finger over the manic writing that Ed had tried to scratch the ballpoint as deeply into his skin as possible. Attempting to etch himself in riddles as if allowing them to consume him physically might offer him some kind of mental respite from his own dark twisted insanity. ‘Who am I’ seems only the tip of the iceberg. They should have stopped on his back. But an ingenious man with long limbs and a pension for compulsively finishing what he starts, and every inch of skin is covered. Over the scars which are faintly visible beneath the writing and make a certain bile rise in his throat. 

It had been over drinks one evening. Late. A tipsy, still desperate for Oswald’s approval and friendship Edward had let the words slur out slightly. Barely a story. Hardly worth noting for most. But Oswald had been in love with him even then, and he remembered the details even now as he sees the proof for the first time. 

He remembered everything.

“Edward... What have you done to yourself…” He muttered in soft disbelief as he still worked to process the damage. How extensive. How long term. And more than anything-- How in the hell had he gotten to this mental state of such complete and utter madness?

It’s worse than he even imagined and he isn’t sure whether to consider this at least answer enough for why he came to Oswald of all people, or to allow that little irritating sting of slight offense come over him. He let himself get here before going for help-- that isn’t surprising. He’s a proud man with too many enemies and no real friends. But that in this state of clear and utter lunacy, he still has the rationale to know he can manipulate Oswald into caring for him. 

Is the penguin really so vulnerable?

He hopes not. 

And yet here he is, shaking off such internal questions as he goes to run Edward a warm bath to try and wash away the ink and blood from his skin.


	4. Taking Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind words from everyone! Keep them coming, as I really do super appreciate them. Note that this chapter is being written and published with the next because I felt like they went hand in hand together. Please enjoy (:

Removing his clothes feels both remarkably uncomfortable, and also disturbingly clinical. For a man who was once in love and now in hate, Oswald was able to remain very cold and very objective in the task of helping to undress and to wash Ed. He much would have preferred to have had another person to take upon the task… But then… Then where would he have been? Allowing someone else, some stranger to see Edward not only nude, but also so staggeringly weak? The former being a state of awkward intimacy, but the latter… To allow someone to see a man reduced to a husk, to see Edward Nygma bested only by his own insanity, too far gone to manage a wash? 

That was just too far. There was no pleasure for Oswald in that. 

And so it was Oswald’s job to clean him up. He left the tall man’s boxers on his body, though he made a note he hoped Edward would change them when offered a fresh set of clothing. And Ed sank into the hot water so that Oswald could begin the task of washing away the evidence of Edward’s insanity with gentle small movements. The soap lathers. And with enough strokes of the sponge, it does ultimately begin run into the water, clouding it with the black pigment. 

At a certain point, Edward finally does move. Its a reaction. Small. Minor. Silent at that. But a reaction all the same to say he is still inside of this body. He is still alive. It happens when Oswald begins to lather his hands into the man’s scalp, working to clean the tangled mess of curls atop his head, Ed…. Well, he leans into it. In a single moment. A minor, little, heart beat of a moment as Oswald runs a hand of warm water and soap over the side of his head, Ed allows his eyes to close and his head to incline against the hand. As if the small kindness, the small affectionate touch were utterly irresistible to him. Unable to be denied. Unable to hold back. Oswald could feel that last resolve begin to wane and he pulled his hand away only to have Ed’s eyes fly open with vague realization. Still silence, and his eyes looked down with shame. 

After the bath, he needed to get dressed. And for the sheer happenstance of the occasion alone, he gave Edward a pair of his own boxers to wear in place of that dripping mess and his favorite lush dressing gown to wrap around him. Very similar to one they had shared long ago, back in the days before hate burned their bridges and left them here. 

He leaves Ed to dress and retreats to his own study, hoping to find some kind of answers in the bottom of a very full glass of liquor. Alas, the only thing that comes is a wash over him to alleviate the tension headache he only realizes now is plaguing him. This whole situation isn’t fair. He should tell Ed to leave. He should make him leave. Send him off into the city to find someone else to take care of him. This wasn’t Oswald’s job or responsibility. He had made it very clear their friendship was worth very little. 

He poured another drink. 

Downed it. 

Something felt so wrong about that course of action though. It was as if Oswald owed Ed better even though he knew he didn’t… Then it hit him. He didn’t owe Edward anything, no. But perhaps he owed what he felt for Edward something. Even if Ed didn’t deserve this affection, the love he had once felt for the man, the awakening of something he didn’t believe existed inside of him, the true and sincere desire to care for him that he once had… Perhaps he owed it to that? To all that almost came to pass between them. To the almost kisses and the tender hugs and the evenings spent in quiet conversation where the words rested on the tip of the kingpin’s tongue but he was just to afraid to speak them. Perhaps if he had, things could have been different-- perhaps if he had just said them soon enough, none of this would have ever happened. Perhaps they would have been together?

Oswald needed another drink. 

Just as he went to pour it though, the study door creaked and he turned to find Edward looking lost and confused. His hair was still wet. He had at the very least dressed which was good. Oswald wanted to ask him all the questions that were swimming in the warm alcohol fueled fuzziness of his mind, but instead he swallowed such emotions and spoke simply. 

“You must be hungry. Come. There should be something of a dinner waiting for us.” He said and even though Ed didn’t seem to hear him, the man followed Oswald all the same when he left the study and headed for the dining room. 

Thinking on the way Ed’s ribs had been oh so traceable beneath his skin, Oswald can’t help wondering when the last time was Edward even had a meal. 

He decided to shake off that line of questioning as well. He might not like the answers.


	5. What Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned, this gets kind of graphic about Edward having his mental break down and it does involve mentions of self harm. Please PLEASE be warned for triggering content. I would hate for anyone to be hurt by this. That being said, this is an examination into what brought Ed to Oswald in the first place.

He wouldn’t have. 

Liked the answers that is. To any of it. The truth was that after being revived, Ed had since been… Well, deteriorating. Falling a part. Piece by piece. When Strange first set him back to the land of the living, he had felt fine…? A little groggy. A little unsure, but for the most part, he was alive. He can even remember wanting to plot his next scheme for revenge on Oswald after the event. Leaving the lab, heading into the streets, robbing a convenience store, finding an abandoned warehouse to sleep in…  
That’s when it happened. 

Or rather when it first happened. The beginning of it all. Sleep that first night. It claimed him quickly which was rare because between the drugs and the natural insomnia, Edward was never one to sleep easily. But this night, he slept hard and fast. As if he felt exhausted, which maybe he did? Maybe he did feel tired. All he could remember though, were the dreams. Vivid and gruesome but not in a pleasant way. Not in a way where he exacted pain and torture and sweet, blissful death on some form of idiot or another. 

No.

He was the idiot. And it was his father, and Officer Doughtery, and Arnold Flass, and Detective Bullock, and bullies from school, and everyone who had ever managed to make Edward Nygma feel small and insignificant seemed to pool in the masses to mock him. To scream at him. To threaten him. To reach out and grab his skin and pull at him-- literally ripping him into pieces as he begged to be given mercy. 

And then suddenly they were all gone. And he was alone. Just all alone. In the blackness of nothing, with no one around, and the feeling overcame him of this isolation having been infinite. He had always been here, would always be here. Alone. Unloved. Unknown. He would always remain this man locked in a state of nothing with no escape. 

Then he awoke. 

And it had been 17 hours since he fell asleep. 

The dream was so vivid it rocked him to his core. His days proceeded to be filled with hallucinations which mocked him and his nights were enveloped in the same nightmares of being worthless and then alone. Soon it bled into his day, into his every waking moment. The nothingness. The void which had once been so beautiful but now lay as terror incarnate. He was losing his mind, and he tried… God did he try to keep it. Riddles. Plans. Elaborate gestures of his intelligence to try and prove to Gotham he was still around. Maybe if they saw him, if they could be brought back to see him and to care about his existence via their terror-- maybe if he just had their attention, then this infinite and endless nothingness that loomed to claim his existence would fade. 

He thought if maybe someone noticed him, he wouldn’t feel as though he had ceased to exist anymore. 

Nothing worked though, and soon the nothingness felt like it consumed him. He stopped being able to sleep, and eating in itself often felt like an exercise too profound to be managed. Everything was overwhelming and meaningless all at once. Functioning fell into deeper depths of dysfunction. One night, after months of fighting and struggling with it all, Edward tried to do the one thing he hoped might cure him. Riddles. He loved riddles. He began in the nearly empty room he had been staying in on the second floor of the warehouse. He just began writing them on the walls. Riddles. Riddle after riddle. 

_What’s green then red?... What’s black and white and read all over?...The poor have, the rich need, and if you eat it you’ll die… What has four eyes but can’t see?... The more you cut me the bigger I grow… What gets wetter the more it dries?... I take you by night, by day take you back and none suffer to have me, but suffer from my lack..._

He covered the walls soon enough and all it had done was open up his compulsions more. It made him crave more. He needed more riddles. Riddles were the only thing left which was real. Riddles were all he had. The decision to write on his skin had not come as a decisions but as an impulse. A desire to become a part of them. To be inside them. To be saved by them. He drove the pen deeper until he bled in some places and it wasn’t until he was thoroughly marked all over his torso, that it occurred to him it would never stop. The brief euphoria each riddle and each bit of pain offered wasn’t enough. It was fading. His adrenalin was falling and the nothingness was enclosing back around him. 

He ended up at Oswald’s club. 

He hadn’t spoken to another person in several weeks. 

He felt trapped inside his skin, suffocating on his own body. Unable to feel and also unable to stop the pain that was constantly there. The nothingness and the torment that went hand in hand. Oswald thought he was a shell, and in many ways he was… But Edward was still inside there. Trapped, traumatized, and screaming out silently to be saved. 

He could only hope Oswald could understand this. 

Just as Oswald had somehow always understood him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so thank you for going through the unpleasantness with me. Hoping to post more this week. Things will get better eventually-- but they also will likely get very much worse thereafter for a bit before that (hopefully) happy ending I'm aiming for.


	6. Silent Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they have dinner and more of Ed's mental dissociation is made apparent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again two chapters should be posted together. I mostly just like keeping consistent lengths across the board, so divide the work as evenly as possible as it evolves and I find good-ish stopping points. Pleaseee forgive the slowburn-ness of this plot. I like introspection. It is my life. I do try to post some kind of plot movement even with the heavy internalness. 
> 
> (See end for notes to my commenters/readers/kudos-ers/bookmark-ers. <3 )

Dinner is another wholly quiet affair. Oswald is left to do most of the speaking, and as such he makes a small effort to offer for conversation topics of little substance, but that might in someway spark Edwards interest. Primarily, he details the schemes that brought him to this mansion, to see the ruin of what was Gotham and to now sit perched on a throne as the huddled masses try to recover from the anarchy which had been brought to them. He mentions the architecture of the home, his decisions in wallpaper and light fixtures. Trivial. Small. 

And all things he had wanted to tell Ed since the thoughts came to him. Often times, he missed Ed being in the ice, if only because he could still speak to him. He missed talking to him. Even if he couldn’t speak back. There is a comfortable trust between them, and a desire on Oswald’s part for the rarest form of company he had ever known-- agreeable company. Edward had always been such. Even in his most profound moments of being an utter unbearable… Well, ass for lack of a better word, Oswald found the man had never inherently changed. The kingpin could even admit that in any moment when Edward displayed that same side with the direction of his vehemence at anyone other than himself, Oswald could take immense pleasure in watching Edward tear someone apart. Cruelly. Coldly. Verbally. Physically. It had been this capacity for sadism which sparked their friendship. 

Galavan’s lackey had been a point of bonding for the two. 

Oswald made a mental note that perhaps another occasion to share in torture might help. He would remember this as an effort if moving forward Edward still refused to mentally budge from his point of utter dissociation. He knows it isn’t his fault, and all the same it’s really maddening. 

Oh god, there he goes again. Making decisions to save Edward without considering how ridiculous they are. The Penguin staunchly clings to his denial of wanting to help Ed, and marks it up once again to old habits. They die had after all, when they die at all. It’s hardly his fault that he had spent so much time being in love with Ed, it consuming such a profound amount of his time and focus during those days that it’s a difficult mindset to break with. 

He doesn’t realize he’s gone quiet in the conversation until he notices how little Edward has eaten. When he speaks, his voice comes abruptly and breaks what could only in the most generous of circumstances be described as a “comfortable” silence. 

“Is there something wrong with your meal?”

Ed looks startled from his distraction and looks up to meet those sea green eyes. He opens his mouth, only to immediately shut it back, looking down with a frown at the duck breast that lays untouched on his plate. The hesitation is written all over his face, an internal conflict etched into the little lines between his furrowed brows. Ultimately he takes a bite though. And another. And then as he chews, he looks up to Oswald as if seeking some clarification. Not necessarily praise, but more... Certainty? As if he isn’t sure he is supposed to be eating. As if he isn’t sure if he even is eating. 

He looks a little like everything has become a question and simultaneously nothing has an answer. 

Oswald almost feels sorry for him. 

Almost. 

Pity is for people less than ourselves though, and even in this state, Oswald refuses to believe Edward less than him. No. He is a threat, a force to be reckoned with, and even if he is shattered presently, Oswald is sure that the pieces remaining in the wreckage are certainly jagged enough to slit his throat with the right provocation. 

If Ed didn’t have this dangerous element of unpredictability then he just wouldn’t be Ed. 

That thought makes Oswald smile a little, and then immediately frown as he regains his decidedly less affectionate expression and continues to fill the air with the small details of little achievements and tiny victories. He’s bragging thoroughly and would be lying to deny the pleasure it gives him to be able to do so when Edward can scarcely murmur a syllable back let alone a characteristic biting insult. Soon Oswald continues nibbling at his meal, but at a pace that allows for him to finish eating at a point where he is satisfied with Edward’s slow progress. He senses when the meal ceases to be communal it will-- well, cease to be all together, and so he eats slowly and speaks often. 

When the meal does indeed end, he stands to retire for bed. 

Edward stands with slightly panicked eyes as Oswald announces such. 

“Oh… I….” He hesitated. “Let me show you to a room for the night. You likely need rest as well, yes?” It was one of those statements which to an outsider might sound a great deal like a real question. Like Edward had some manner of choice. He didn’t of course. He had no choice at all. Oswald had made the choice for him and decided he clearly needed rest and even more over, Oswald needed to be able to have some time alone to reflect and collect his thoughts on the insanity which had been this day. 

He leads Ed up the staircase and leaves him in the guestroom just down the hall from his own. In all reality, Oswald isn’t sure what’s even happening anymore. This all feels so surreal, and a hot shower didn’t help nearly as much as he had hoped. Soon he is sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands cupping his head, and he can’t stop considering how much this is very not his place. Not his responsibility. Echoing thoughts continue to resonate through him as he can hardly remember what his plans had once been to kill Edward… That isn’t good. Maybe he’s just tired. The kingpin continues to brush off the notion he might desire Ed’s continued existence in favor of sleep. And after twenty minutes of tossing and shifting-- he finds a restless sort of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading and commenting. It is sustaining me. This remains my first Nygmob fic, though not my only. (Not so subtle plug for my other works XD). Continue commenting! I have too much anxiety about the person to person thing to tell you individually how much I adore you-- but like dudes I adore you all so freaking much. All the adoration. *throws buckets full at all readers*


	7. Nightmares Abound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the last of Oswald's paranoia gives way to the realization of just how desperate things are for Edward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom! Promised ya two chapters and here we are. Look at me. Keeping promises.

A restless sort of sleep which gives way to nightmares. Ed bursting into his room in the night, cackling at what a brilliant and remarkably easy plan this had been. To lie to Oswald. To trick him. To get Oswald to think Ed needed him, to show Oswald just how pathetically he craved Edwards attention to the point of even blindly trusting him to sleep in the same house. And then a knife. A switchblade to be more accurate, the Riddler’s beloved instrument plunged deep into Oswald’s chest while Ed just kept laughing at just how 

The Penguin sat up with a gasp and his chest heaved and sweat drenched his forehead. 

He was alive.

It had all been a dream and the notion of it’s roots taking shape in reality really had disturbed the kingpin to no real end. What if that was his own perceptive sense of caution taking heed? What if his subconscious was trying to tell him something? Some cues it had picked up on that were too subtle for his conscious brain to notice. What if Edward was coming in any second to slit his throat? He could be just outside the door now. It felt like a ridiculous sort of paranoia, but after thinking that-- Oswald couldn’t seem to stop thinking it until he finally moved from the bed and padded across the floor with a hesitant, measured gait. The door swung open to reveal an emptiness that felt a relief. But also a fresh sort of terror. If Ed had been here then atleast there would be no more questions. No more doubts. He would know.

As it remains though the uncertainty is as much a blow as any physical attack might have been. Oswald needs to know. He needs to find a way to feel some kind of sureness amidst all these doubts so that at least he can move forward in a way that doesn’t feel so haphazard. 

It was just then that he heard a soft, strange sort of sound coming from down the hall. In what had been very easily a silent home in the last few months of living here alone and in the most blissful sort of solitude, Oswald is off put easily by the noise. By any noise. It was past 2 am. Edward had to be asleep, at least if he wasn’t plotting Oswald’s demise-- which even if he were, that affair ought to be fairly quiet. No… There is something unsettling about the noise and it seems to compel curiosity in the penguin. He takes hold of his cane, fully prepared to withdraw the weapon within if needed. The closer he drew to Edward’s door though, the closer he seemed to come to the sound and the more distinctly he could make out the exact tenor. 

It was a sad sort of sound. A sad, broken, haunting sound. Stressed, panicked, but also hopeless. Like a drowning man who is certain of his fate and fights from instinct and impulse not from a belief he can save himself. Three quick knocks to his door and Oswald opens the door himself to find a rather surprising state. Edward had left the lights on, which had made the kingpin assume he was awake from the glow cast under the oak door. But no-- no, he was asleep. And moreover, he seemed sound asleep. 

Oswald knocking on his door and subsequently entering his room had changed nothing. Still he slept, in a violent sort of way. His body was dressed in only his boxers now, and he lay in the bed, in what perhaps had been the fetal position but now was Ed curled up on his front, with his face pressed into the mattress as he was sobbing and crying… Soft unintelligible gibberish spilled from his lips as he sounded rather like he was begging. Though just what for was lost on the kingpin for now. Oswald moved closer to him, stepping over the blankets and sheet which had been kicked from the bed likely in Ed’s current fit, and reaching out and gently giving the back of his shoulder a little jostle. 

“Edward?” He called, and no response came so he tried a more forceful shake. “EDWARD!” He spoke more firmly as well and a few more of these would come before suddenly, Ed’s whole body went rigid and still. His rapid breathing slowed only slightly and what had been a fierce clutch of his fingers into his knees-- so deep that his nails had begun to draw blood-- loosened as his trembling hands moved to help him roll over. His eyes blinked harshly in the overhead light and he reached up tentatively to rub his face and then feel for his glasses. They were neatly on the nightstand. 

He struggled to put them on, but once he had them on, he stared at Oswald, eyes full of questions and fear. He seems to struggle to find his voice but when he does, it breaks Oswald’s heart. 

“D-don’t leave me alone again. Please.”

Oswald frowns and debates for a minute just what to do. He looks around a little, but somehow-- not too surprisingly really-- this moment finally assuages his fears of Edward doing this to set him up. Most of them atleast. Because Oswald can see the pain and worry in his eyes, and he can feel radiating from Ed, more than ever, his need to be saved. A sincere. Genuine need. No games. No calculations. Just Ed. 

He decides there is only really one option and nods softly. “Okay. I… Let me get the light and I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.” It isn’t as though he’d be able to sleep anyway knowing how frightened and panicked Ed was just down the hall from him. Not because he cares, of course. No just because those noises of distress would be very distracting to his own sleep. Yes, that is definitely why he remains. Just that reason and nothing more.


	8. Soothing Presence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note updated tags include a trigger warning for child abuse as will be seen in this chapter. If you want to skip the chapter a simple summary will be in the end notes. Please be warned as it gets quite graphic as we see just what Ed was dreaming of.

He was being beaten by his father. It’s a classic dream. Sometimes he’s an adult, sometimes he’s still a child but always he is his weakest self. Ineffectual and snivelling. Begging for help, laying in a heap of blood and tears and begging his daddy to stop. Please stop. He repeats that whatever subconscious offense that he has conjured didn’t happen. He didn’t cheat on that test. He didn’t break that vase. He didn’t steal that candy from the store. Name the offense, and guilty or not, Ed was beaten for it in childhood and now they all rally together and play through his mind in the nights when he feels particularly like a waste of space. Oxygen. Life. That’s what his father always said at least. 

This time he was hitting him with a belt. Buckle end first, slashing into his back and tearing the skin as he huddles down and protects his face. He’s already ugly enough as his father also tells him. He needn’t allow anymore damage to his face. 

It’s somewhere around the sixteenth lashing that Oswald wakes him. He used to count them as a boy, in his head silently-- it was something to do to try and focus anywhere but on the pain. He still counts them in his dreams. Compulsion is a nasty sort of thing after all. It takes several moments between waking up and realizing he had been dreaming. He wasn’t seven anymore. His father wasn’t looming overhead because little Eddie earned a rightfully deserved A on a test, which old Edward Sr knew had to be some kind of lie or cheat because his moron of a little brat wasn’t capable of doing anything right.

His heart rate slows a little and his hands unclench from his knees. There’s a strange phantom pain that flares up somewhere inside the scars that scatter over his back. It was too familiar for too long, too much of his life was marked by that sensation-- and now and again, like this he can still feel it. It calls back to mind the memories of washing the blood away in a hot shower and watching it pool at his feet and dissipate into the water and down the drain. It reminds him of the way he washed blood from his stitched up stab wound after being revived. 

It reminds him of what Oswald did for him.

That’s what hurts the most. Knowing that he had chosen more than once his loyalty, he had turned his back on Oswald’s friendship so many times in selfishness. In desire to hate him because to know his true feelings.. No, they’ve been buried so long and so deeply that Edward himself has never really been able to look them over. Perhaps that is why coming back has him torn into pieces and jammed back together like a puzzle which has been assembled improperly. He doesn’t fit together anymore. It’s all wrong. 

Oswald seems to see it though. And he seems to understand. So Ed goes with him, following his lead and only hopes somewhere along the line his pieces get set right. And once again, he has been helped by his kindness as that nightmare’s end was because of the man now standing over him looking concerned. 

Oh there’s just so much. Too much. How can he say it all? How can he…. No. He can’t. Edward knows he can’t. He is scared to say it, even as every moment since he was revived seems to scream for it. No. He won’t say it. He just can’t. Not like this. 

So instead he asks not to be left alone, because the demons in his head and the monsters that lurk within his mind seem only interested in him when he’s alone. Oswald…. Helps. Oswald sees him, knows him, and is real. He knows he’s real. Probably. If he was a hallucination, he’d be far crueler to Edward anyway. He must definitely be real. And somehow, he consents to the request. By miracle, Ed might assume if he believed in such miracles. But of course, he doesn’t. He believes in the factual progression of Oswald’s continued care. He had once loved Ed, after all. And even in his moments of greatest anger he hadn’t killed him. He had frozen him in that block where he remained alive and contained and inanimate but still alive somehow…

It was poetic and were he not the victim of the plan, he might have commended Oswald for his style. Making the most brilliant man in Gotham a display piece in a nightclub… It was impressive to say the least. But he couldn’t help wonder why he hadn’t killed Ed. Be it first or at any point after. He had his chances. Again and again. Or even when he found the man dead....

Why not leave him?

Why not abandon him just as Ed had abandoned Oswald?

The word ‘why’ digs its claws into his mind and sets up root deep within. It will nag him, irritate him-- torture him until he finally asks. But he cannot do it today. Perhaps one day, when words don’t stick inside his throat and cognant conversation doesn’t seem so exhaustive A day when Oswald hasn’t just found him in a nightmarish fit of fear and anxiety. A day when he doesn’t feel so weak. 

He silently watches as Oswald turns out the light in his room, and then sits in the corner chair, looking awkward and rather unsure of just what to do. Ed doesn’t think he’s ever seen Oswald look unsure. It’s hard to really comprehend the emotion on his face, and it seems Oswald himself feels entirely unfamiliar with it as well. He sits all the same though, and it is comforting to see his silhouette by the dim lamplight sitting in the corner. 

So comforting in fact that Ed even manages to find sleep of his own. A heavy, dreamless sleep that is rather like death itself creeping over the rest-starved man and claiming him for this much needed night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you avoided the heavily triggering content, here is what'cha missed:
> 
> Edward dreamed of his abusive father, woke up and asked Oswald to stay with him. He considers whether he should admit some truths to Oswald but decides not to. He is also very conflicted about wanting to ask Oswald why he continues to help him in spite of their sorted past. He again decides not to because the moment is all too vulnerable. Oswald sits and waits while Ed sleeps and sleep comes pretty heavily and soundly for Edward for the first time in months. 
> 
> And thats what you missed last week on Glee! XD


	9. Unexpected Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of smutishness-- I read your comments. I know you crave the smut, and I totally get it. But guys you gotta bear with me a bit more. We have a ways to go with these two. That being said, THANK YOU SO MUCH for bearing with me. For continuing to care about this mess of a fic that is just my own personal love letter to a ship I adore. I never dreamed anyone else would care about this and just... THANK YOU. <3

There had been a time, what felt like an eternity ago, when Oswald loved to imagine Ed touching him. In fact, a few weeks went by in haze of adoration and longing, where it often crept into his most pleasant dreams. Having learned the sensation from friendly hugs, soft handshakes, a hesitant shoulder grabbed in gentle reassurance, belabored assistance with a particularly stubborn tie as Ed flourished a little under the ability to offer aid-- Oswald had come to be familiar with what Ed’s hands felt like. 

They were soft. Surprisingly soft. He was well groomed in a way Oswald tended to strive towards and often failed to accomplish. Edward was not so careless, not so impulsive, not so neglectful as Oswald could be. Rather, Edward was meticulous. Detail oriented. His compulsions manifested in the way his nail beds were always clean, his palms always moisturized, his long deft fingers never displaying any sign of the devastatingly violent capabilities of the man within. They were hands which made Oswald weak to see, and made his body tremble in the dark nights, when his mind wandered to just what he would let those hands do to him-- what he craved for them to do to him.

_“Edward….” He would moan breathily as his finger nails scraped into Ed’s shoulders. His teeth latching against the taller man’s neck to make him moan the breathiest of ‘oh dears’ and shading Ed’s skin purple and red the next morning as there was proof left of the sheer dedication the penguin had for his lover. Yes, they would be lovers. He would feel the inside of Ed’s thighs, trail his tongue over the line of his pulse-- feel how his heart hammered with sheer anticipation of the climax Oswald would be building him towards. And those hands…. Ed’s beautiful soft hands would cling to Oswald, would beg him silently for reprieve and release. They would stroke over the most well hidden of scars the kingpin bore and they wouldn’t just brush against his skin but against something deep inside. Something beautiful. Something rare. Something frightened so much of being hurt that it lay locked away for almost four decades-- rotting inside Oswald’s very core until finally he was courageous. Finally he let himself love. For Edward. Only Edward. And Ed would love him back. Their bodies writhing, hungry and needy. Their souls even more over. Oswald would worship him in such moments, he would worship Edward Nygma with everything he had, lavishing soft spoken and breathless compliments on the man. Telling him endlessly that he was adored. That he was loved. Because Oswald had loved him. Oswald had loved him so much…_

But that was a long time ago. 

That was a time when things were simpler. Betrayals hadn’t been made by either, and they had this sort of reckless faith about each other. A trust born between two men who hadn’t been trustworthy to anyone in a long time. Thieves who knew so well they both lacked honor and yet still seemed to expect it of the other. They were selfish men, and they knew one another to be the same. It was why they were friends. It was why they were so very close and so very enamored with the novelty of being so fully understood.

There never is honor amongst thieves though, and there is nothing more reckless than to trust a deceptive and selfish man. Oswald had learned that. 

So had Edward. 

And while there had been a time that Ed’s touch was a thing Oswald coveted almost as much as the power he lusted after, that time was not now. Ed’s gentle hand on his shoulder to rouse him from sleep is not met with anything short of a full flinch as Oswald awakens sitting straight up in the chair where he had sat the night before, waiting out the Riddler’s sleep. He hadn’t slept well, but he had slept heavily. So much so that Ed managed to wake and collect himself-- even wash up a bit by the looks of it, and now endeavor to rouse his host. 

Oswald hadn’t been dreaming, or maybe he had, but either way his mind rests empty when he is awoken by the hand on his shoulder and the voice of the man who was now the glaring reminder of his own weakness. And all Oswald can do is recoil from the touch as he gasps to consciousness, started a little as he struggles to remember just how much had changed in the last 24 hours. This time yesterday he was waiting for Ed to make his move. To launch his attack. He had plans simmering in his mind for how he would get back at him, how he could plan a defensive strategy without knowing even where or when the offensive strike would occur. 

And now?

Now, he looks up at Ed. Still in his dressing gown, curls falling over his forehead, and eyes full of apology as he mutters the word sorry with his hands lifted in front of him. 

“I-I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He stammered out, his voice slightly less strained than it had been the day before. At least he was speaking now. That much was progress. 

Though progress towards just what… Oswald hasn’t the foggiest. 

Before Oswald has the chance to speak, to offer some justification for why Edward Nygma would never frighten him-- some biting remark that even in light of the man’s weakness, he couldn’t hold back from uttering with a vitriolic sort of cruelty that just was a part of him these days….Before he can be himself-- Ed adds softly, 

“I made breakfast… I-if you’re hungry.”  
And it’s so surprising that Oswald finds himself stricken silent and almost dumb with the fact he had expected almost anything but that. It’s so surprising, he can’t respond. He can’t think of a cruel remark. He can’t find sarcasm. And in lieu of it, he just stares at Ed for a long moment. It would be awkward if the taller man weren’t so naturally oblivious to social stigma. He meets Oswald’s gaze with eager eyes and just stares back. Just waits, as if completely unaware of the fact this kind of silence is abnormal. 

“Sure.” 

It’s all the penguin can come up with after the extended silence stretches far too thin between them. And Ed offers a small, pleased smile and looks towards the door, hesitating and looking back at Oswald for a single second. 

“Th….” The syllable hangs in the air as Edward closes his mouth abruptly, as if words were escaping too quickly and he knew no other way to keep them in. He pauses, brows knitting together in considered thought before he makes a more resolute sort of eye contact with Oswald. “I appreciate you... staying last night. With me. You… didn’t have to. But you did. I appreciate that.” And with those words-- those broken apart, jagged sort of words that flow rather like staggered thoughts than Edward’s normal fluid eloquent sentences, Edward turns and heads away.

Oswald just sits, once again rendered speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed is trying really hard to not be such a mess. 
> 
> A single evening actual human contact, after all the isolation helped immensely. Of actually eating. Being touched gently. Being spoken to and being offered a solid night of sleep is helping him come back to himself. But it's still a mountain to climb to really be himself again.
> 
> *deep breath*
> 
> Brace yourselves for the next few chapters, that being said. Because things are going to get a little more heated between them soon. And not in a good way. XD


End file.
